His question plays on repeat in my mind, daring me to answer.

* * *

It’s after midnight, and I’m in the kitchen getting a drink when I hear the apartment door close and the sound of keys hitting the counter. Dad is home.

I’m not in the mood for an argument.

I’ll just ignore him.

When I see my father, I stop short.

His perpetual five-o’clock shadow resembles the beginning of a patchy beard, and the long hair around his face that he normally slicks back hangs in his eyes. He looks like the kind of guy I would cross the street to avoid walking past. Dad slouches deeper into the dark hoodie he’s wearing over a pair of baggy jeans and boots.

“Sorry about this.” He gestures at his clothes. “I always changed out of my work clothes before I picked you up at your mother’s. But if you want to catch criminals, you have to look like one of them.”

“It’s fine.” I shrug.

“How about a truce? Maybe we can talk like a regular father and daughter.” He’s offering me an olive branch. Dad kicks off his boots and puts them in the hall closet.

“You said not to put shoes in there.”

“I said not to put your shoes in there. That’s where I keep my work clothes.”

Now I’m curious.

When I was young, the hall closet was off-limits because that’s where Dad kept the lockbox for his gun. I’ve peeked in the closet a few times since then, usually around Christmastime when I was searching for my presents. But it’s always the same old stuff—ugly jackets and what I assumed were Goodwill donation boxes.

I take a closer look.

The ugly coats hang crammed together on the rod—canvas construction coats, hoodies, and a tacky leather jacket. The boxes are still there, too. One is full of shirts and thermals, and the other holds shoes and belts. The only new additions are the stack of jeans and a black knit hat on the shelf above the rod.

“Why do you keep all this ugly stuff in here?”

Dad turns on the kitchen faucet and digs his nails into a bar of green soap he keeps next to the sink. “I can’t wear my regular clothes when I’m on the street.”

I understand why he needs a different car when he’s working, but different clothes?

“If RATTF raids a chop shop or we make a home arrest, undercover troopers like me wear ski masks. But criminals pay attention to details, especially if they can’t see your face. A jacket with a patch or a rip in a specific spot, a discontinued pair of sneakers—that’s how they ID us. A trooper on the Homicide Team had his cover blown because a suspect recognized his high-tops.”

I sit down at the table. “Were they an unusual color?”

“Nope. Just red and white. But one of the sides was worn down from the way the guy walked. Combined with the color, that was all the suspect needed.” He dries his hands and grabs a Diet Pepsi.

“Why haven’t you told me about anything like that before?” I know the basics.

My father is a Maryland State Police trooper on a task force that targets auto theft rings and chop shops. On the street, people think he and his partner, Tyson, are car thieves. But I had no idea that Dad has two separate wardrobes or that he wears a ski mask during busts.

He shrugs. “You never asked.”

It’s true.

“Your mom wasn’t a big fan of talking about my job. I just assumed you wouldn’t be, either.” Dad finishes off his Diet Pepsi and grabs another can. “There aren’t a lot of happy endings. We bust a lot of crews, but it’s hard to nail the brokers who make the deals to sell the stolen cars and parts. Unless we catch them and break the chain, a new crew will crop up, and it starts all over. You don’t want to hear about depressing stuff like that.”

“Wait. You quiz me about things like how to track the route a kidnapper drives if I’m blindfolded and the fastest way to get out of handcuffs before he kills me, but you think your work stories are depressing?”

“Those are—”

“Critical life skills,” I finish for him. “I know. But practicing serial killer evasion isn’t exactly a mood booster.”

“I worry, that’s all. I wanted to be home more while you were getting settled, but we’re in the middle of an investigation.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t usually work this many nights. I never asked if you were uncomfortable staying alone.”

“I’m not alone. Cujo is here.”

“Your mother called to check on you, and she wasn’t thrilled when I mentioned it.”

“Since when do you take orders from Mom?” It’s an obvious move on my part, but it usually works. “If something happened, Cujo would protect me, right?”

The Akita barks when he hears his name.

Dad nods. “He won’t let anyone come through the door unless you let them in.”

“Then everything is fine.”

“Would you tell me if it wasn’t?” He leans against the counter, watching me.

It’s a cop thing. He’s looking for a gesture or an expression that will reveal what I’m feeling. But what Dad knows about me is surface-level stuff. That’s how well he knew the old Frankie. When it comes to the new Frankie, he doesn’t have a clue.

CHAPTER 17

PROXY

Lex pulls into Lot B on Monday morning, and I look for Marco’s Mustang. I spot the sloped back end right away. But today he isn’t standing next to his car with the hood popped.

The lightness I felt on the ride over instantly vanishes, replaced by the familiar weight that I’m tired of carrying. After a weekend of thinking about Marco—or trying not to—I wanted to see him. I’m still angry about what happened between us at the party, and I didn’t plan to talk to him. But I won’t lie. The way he kissed me … it felt like more than a hookup.

I don’t see Cruz, either, or her yellow Nissan.

English will suck more than usual.

Lex picks through the receipts and gum wrappers on her console. “Do you see a folded piece of loose leaf paper anywhere? It’s my calculus homework.”

“Hold on.” I push around the empty soda cans on the floor with my foot. “If you cleaned out this car once in a while, you wouldn’t lose things every five minutes.”

“Thanks for the tip, Mom.” She leans between our seats and digs through a mountain of clothes.